A/N It has been suggested to me to explain my reasoning for Ghost's death. The story's theme is essentially: you don't get the family you want, you get the family that will have you. Ghost was symbolic of Jon's Stark heritage, which he must abandon. The reason I wanted to write this story was to explore conflicting feelings of abandonment and belonging. How I see it: Ghost was a safety blanket, a false sense of security that tied Jon to his past. As many of you have guessed, Ghost's death was also an homage to the death of Nissa Nissa.
Two months later...
Jon sat on a flat rock along the coastal road to Meereen. With a oiled cloth, he polished the Valyrian steel blade in his possession. Ripples in the metal appeared to shift and dance beneath his moving hand. The hand-and-a-half sword hardly needed sharpening but Jon found the methodical task soothing.
The blade was not Longclaw.
"Blackfyre," Thoros had explained, upon inspecting the blade. By removing the blade, the source of the fire in the House of the Undying was finally extinguished and the world purged of the last of the Undying's magic. "Brought to Essos by Aegor Rivers, or Bittersteel, the founder of the Golden Company. It has been thought long lost."
Jon could only stare blankly—in the aftermath of Ghost's death—as the wolf's head on "Longclaw's" pommel was replaced with a large, flat red ruby. For it's age, the blade was surprisingly well preserved. It's design shockingly simple. The sword's silver handles boasted single dragon heads with no other marking or design. No inscription nor sigil.
"The blade of Aegon the Conqueror?" Jon had asked.
"The very same."
Presently, Jon turned the dark steel over in his hands. How did Blackfyre come to be in the House of the Undying? A mystery for another day. Although Jon's heart called for Longclaw, no man could deny that Blackfyre was a superior weapon. Jon would place the blade's quality above Longclaw, but lesser than Ice.
Ironically, the blade's length stood at a hand-and-half, making it yet another bastard sword. Many of Aegon's descendents felt the blade represented the Targaryen right to rule and so to discover the blade was bastard... Jon could only laugh mirthlessly at the gods' sense of humor.
Jon finished polishing the blade's edges. Jon and Thoros—for want of better things to do—would spar late into the night, every night, practicing not only with swords but spears and knives, when spears and knives could be borrowed from other caravans and tents. The road was far from lonely. Various sellswords had flocked to Daenerys' cities, hoping to earn gold in her conquests.
At first, Jon was unused to the lightweight Valyrian steel of Blackfyre, especially after wielding Sweetsinger's heavy iron body. Soon enough, however, Jon's memory of training with Longclaw returned. Now, he bested the red priest more often than not. As long as the knight did not use fire to his advantage. Although Jon could not be burnt, Thoros was a master in the art of diversion.
One night, in passing, Thoros confessed his magic growing stronger every day. The knight was keen on created displays of magic and fire for slaves and masters alike. Under the stars, the priest summoned burning infernos and scintillating flames. Thoros' exhibitions earned the pair coin and a healthy amount of fear, and thus, no complaint from Jon.
Despite the red priests' cheerful showmanship, Jon could not smile at dancing flames or glittering sparks. He could not laugh or drink or chat aimlessly like other men. His soul had turned taciturn and disconsolate. Joyless were his thoughts during the day, and harrowing were his dreams at night.
I blame myself, Jon thought. It was I who fell for the Warlock's last trick. I, who brought a direwolf halfway across the world. I, who shoved the blade in his heart.
Ghosts' body was burned. The wolves ashes were compacted into a small urn. Jon carried the urn in his pack and hoped to scatter the ashes in the Wolf's Wood, where Ghost belonged. He could not bring himself to lay the great beast to rest in the desert, so far from home. Not here, not in Essos, Jon thought morosely. In these forsaken lands.
Days turned to weeks. Weeks turned to months. The pair tracked Daenerys and her army of the Unsullied from Astapor, now in ruins, to Yunkai, and finally to Meereen where she ruled as Queen. The top of Meereen's royal pyramid could be seen from miles up the road. Distantly, Jon thought he spied red and black banners along the slopes.
"Today is the day," Thoros announced happily, standing from his breakfast of bread and dried fruit. The red priest turned to gaze at the looming pyramid.
Two nights previous, Jon had seen a silhouette of dark wings against the sky. A loud shriek filled the air, frightening a nearby flock of sheep into running. Jon's eyes followed the path of the black dragon—it's scaled wings and armored belly—as it flew towards Meereen. Jon recognized the image as it disappeared over the mountains. The vision from King's Landing. The vision he had shared with Thoros, so long ago.
It was the first time Jon laid eyes on a dragon, and yet he felt no joy. Scholars and rich men would die for such a sight, but Jon could not have cared less. It was only a sign. A promise that their destination was at hand.
"Today is the day," Jon sighed.
Jon stood on the steps of Meereen's great pyramid as one of Daenerys' many supplicants, practicing his speech. Forming and reforming the words on his lips. Dwelling and worrying over every possible scenario and revisiting every detail of the evidence. With raw nerves, he repeatedly touched the concealed package of letters hidden under his ribs.
How would the Queen react? With rage? Pity? Indifference? What if she killed him outright? What if she burned the letters, the last remnant of his mother on this earth, and sent him on a ship to Westeros?
Earlier that day, Jon and Thoros gained entrance to Meereen through the city's less popular Western Gate. The gate facing Slaver's Bay. It took both their combined wealth and some of Thoros' magic to convince the master of the gate to permit them passage. It was only after Thoros promised to enter the master's house and perform tricks for his children and former slaves, that the portcullis was lifted and the pair were welcomed into the city.
Jon ran a nervous hand over his cropped beard. The red priest paid the last of their silver to bathe in one of the Great Masters houses, newly repurposed as a public bath. Bathed, shaved and dressed in clean clothes, Jon felt a man again. Months on the road had left a sweaty grime on his skin and it was a relief to finally be free of the dust.
In line, he waited.
Several hours past and Jon began to grow agitated. By midday, the pair was halfway down the line. How many merchants and poets, dancers and beggers will she receive? Jon thought. Before she tires?
Thoros-the-shadow was always one step behind, only having left twice to find food and water for the pair. Three coppers remained. Sweat beaded on his brow underneath the high noon sun. Jon baked in the leather armor the red lady of Qarth had gifted him but he dare not shed his defenses. Blackfyre was fastened tightly to his hip—the ruby pommel covered by his Targaryen cloak—and Jon's hand often hovered over it's handle. Members of the Golden Company had recently been seen scouting Meereen. Their purpose? Jon did not know, but he would not risk losing Valyrian steel to a band of foolhardy sellswords.
Meereen is not Qarth, Jon decided upon reflection. But another beast entirely.
Slaves and masters walked the streets equally, warily examining one another with obvious disdain. An accidental brush of the shoulder was enough to let loose unbridled chaos in the streets, until the brawl was quieted by the Queen's eunuch army. The Unsullied patrolled the streets equipped with tall spiked hats and long spears. Jon thought it made the already too-tall soldiers appear incongruously oppressive. The march of armored feet could silence even the most vehement arguments, and the path would instantly clear as perpetrators fled the scenes.
The presence of the Unsullied is a clear and obvious threat, Jon thought. But why? What sort of Queen threatens her people?
Daenerys the breaker of chains, the freer of slave, the beneficent. Mother, she was called. What sort of mother threatens her children? The city's atmosphere was thick with tension, war, and anger; but also love for the Dragon Queen. Jon did not know what to think. Meereen was as dangerous as it was beautiful, and distinctly unwelcoming.
Jon hoped to leave the city as soon as possible.
The sun set. Jon slept in the streets. Thoros shook him awake every hour or two, when others vacated their position in line, leaving him restless. And when he did sleep, he dreamt of death and desolation. Visions of the Unsullied roaming the countryside, the shadow of their spiked hats marching through the wolf's wood. Shrieks filled the sky. First, the shriek of wights, rapidly replaced by the screech of dragons.
When Jon opened his eyes, the entrance to the pyramid room loomed closer. The smashed stone body of a golden harpy lay recumbent in a street nearby. The Unsullied guarded her fallen body and for one brief moment, Jon prayed that the Unsullied would never surround the slain body of Baelor.
"Today is the actual day," Thoros said with a mad gleam in his eye.
The former lord commander ground his teeth with anticipation. Despite waiting all these months, plotting and planning for nearly a year, Jon could not have prepared himself for the events that would occur within Meereen's great pyramid.
"Jon Snow of Winterfell, son of Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell, Warden of the North, speaking on behalf of the Night's Watch of Westeros," a bald man announced. "And Thoros of Myr, his sworn shield, servant of R'hllor, knighted at the Battle for Pyke."
Jon dared not look. Click, clack, click, clack, the heel of his boot sounded deafening as he strode single mindedly towards the center of the hall. When marble steps came into view, he knelt. Seconds later, he heard Thoros do the same. Already, Valyrian and Ghiscari whispers originated from overhead and beyond the throne.
"It pleases me to know that my last call of the day shall be two men who hail from my country," the Queen spoke in a clear, feminine voice, choosing their common tongue of Westerosi. "You may rise."
Jon rose steadily to his feet. Slowly, ever so slowly, he lifted his gaze. The Queen was surrounded on all sides by various advisors. One man was unmistakable.
Ser Barristan Selmy leveled him with a curious look. During Jon's time in King's Landing the two never had the opportunity to speak, and yet Jon saw recognition in the knight's eyes. Ser Barristan wore the white cloak of his office proudly and Jon surmised the old knight had assumed his rightful place in Daenerys' Queensguard. To Barristan's left, a woman with dark curly hair stood stiff as a statue, her hands were folded at the level of her waist with practiced care. The lady's role in Daenerys' court was unknown to Jon. On the Queen's other side, a grim faced Unsullied stood with a suspicious lack of spiked hat. Hands crossed behind his back, the dark skinned man stared vacantly ahead.
And finally, the Queen.
Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen sat on a long cushioned bench. Garbed in gleaming silver silk, Daenerys bore the silver-gold hair and purple eyes of her ancestors. Jon recognized the dragon of wrought silver metal enclasped around her neck from his vision in the House of the Undying. Despite her status, the Queen wore no crown. A fact that Jon tucked away to ponder later.
Daenerys smiled magnanimously down at him, a kind smile that bespoke the truth of her welcome.
"You bear a resemblance to your father, Lord Eddard Stark," Ser Barristan Selmy spoke and Jon was grateful. The knight's words lended credence to his claim. "A truly just and noble man."
The Queen's smile died. Too late, Jon realized the mention of Ned Stark was an unwanted reminder of Robert's rebellion. The rebellion that toppled the Targaryen empire. Jon resisted the urge to rub a nervous his hand across his beard. A poor habit he had been having trouble breaking.
"Approach," the Queen waved him forward. "Do not be afraid. I am curious to speak with a man from my kingdom. What news of Westeros? I have heard King Robert was skewered by a boar, and Joffrey the pretender rules from my throne."
Jon took a three measured steps forward. The tips of his boots brushed the platform that would lead him to the Queen and Daenerys leaned forward to look at him. It was obvious she was eager to learn more of her homeland but Jon was unnerved by her piercing violet gaze.
The worst is yet to come, he thought ominously.
"Your knowledge is superior to mine, Your Grace," Jon began, as practiced. His solemn voice echoed in the grand emptiness of the hall. "I had only just left Westeros when the war began, and have heard little news of home."
Jon failed to mention Robb's near crowning. Jon failed to mention the mobilization of northern troops, the army gathered at the Golden tooth, Stannis' letters, the rape of the Saltpans and a great many other things that deserved to be mentioned. If Jon had learned anything during his short tenure as lord commander, it was not to trust until trust was earned. A lesson learned too late. Jon would not make the same mistake again.
"And what brings you to Meereen?" the Queen asked, a curious glint to her eye. "You say you come on behalf of the Night Watch. Is the current Lord Commander not Jeor Mormont?"
Jon wondered how she came across this knowledge. Does the dragon queen have spies in Westeros? Is it possible she already know the truth of my lineage, and toys with me? Perhaps I am only meat for her dragons.
"Jeor Mormont is dead," Jon said regretfully and, seeing no other reason to delay, launched into his story. "Which is why I have followed you from Qarth to Astapor, from Astapor to Yunkai, and from Yunkai to Meereen. The realm is in grave peril. The Night's Watch has lost Castle Black and wildlings have taken the Shadow Tower to the West. The wights and their masters, the Others, are marching on the Wall with an army of the dead. I was chosen to be the messenger to beg your assistance. Here," Jon pulled out the signed statements from the men of the Night's Watch, "are the eyewitness accounts of men from Castle Black and Eastwatch by the sea."
Jon pulled the prepared statements out of a leather sack he had purchased in Braavos. It had done its job protecting the parchment from Braavos to Meereen. Now, he could finally deliver on his promise.
The thin woman moved silently and gracefully down the throne steps, took the documents, and returned to Daenerys' side. The Queen did not so much as glance at the letters.
"The Others' weaknesses are fire and dragonglass," Jon continued despite the silence that met his declaration. "Their swords can slice through castle forged steel and our best armor. With each passing day, the Night King's strength grows as the bodies of the fallen are risen again, to join his army. Wildlings and wights alike march on the Wall. The Night's Watch begs the Queen for her assistance."
The Queen was silent. Unblinking. A statue on her marble throne.
"I met a man of the Night's Watch on my travels to White Harbor," Ser Barristan broke the silence. "A man named Dywen who carried the reanimated hand of a corpse in a glass bottle. I would not believe it, Your Grace, if I had not seen it with my own eyes. At the time I thought it a passing oddity. Magic from the far east, perhaps. A ploy to obtain more troops for the Wall."
Jon glanced at the bearded white knight, whose face revealed nothing. In the course of a conversation, the pair had formed an unlikely alliance. In this matter, at least, Jon contemplated the former Kingsguard. Does Ser Barristan the Bold wish to return to Westeros?
"Your story is rather… incredible," Daenarys began slowly, and Jon's heart sank. "And yet, the old scribes often attributed magical properties to the blood of the dragon. If I had not witnessed magic myself, I would not believe it. "
Relief washed over Jon.
"However," the Queen continued and Jon's hope was stifled once more. "I cannot leave Meereen defenseless. The old masters of the Slaver Cities have begun to revolt. I cannot abandon my people."
Jon swallowed dryly and looked to Ser Barristan for assistance, but the knight only frowned. Gathering his courage, Jon steeled himself for the worst.
"Then I must ask for a loan—"
But Daenerys was already shaking her head. "Meereen is not rich in gold, but olives and cedar. What gold I have is tied to the crown and the Second Sons."
"Not a loan of gold," Jon replied and met her eye. "One dragon."
Beside the Queen, the lady gasped and covered her mouth. Ser Barristan's head swiveled to the Queen.
"My brother, Robb, can strike out from Winterfell with an army of northmen," Jon pressed onward. "Together, with dragonfire, we can retake the Wall."
Daenerys stared at him, her mouth agape. The hands folded delicately on her knee began to shake.
"You suggest I loan you a dragon?" she said incredulously, all Queenly kindness evaporated. "I am the Mother of dragons," she snapped angrily. "I would no sooner part from my own children. Let alone to a bastard from the North!"
Jon had expected the rejection. He had not expected the insult. A bastard from the North. Nausea ate at his insides, knowing what he must do. Knowing the truth and the promises he must fulfill. Knowing he could not return home empty handed. Had he not chosen this path? Thousands of lives rest in the balance. Swallow your pride and do what needs to be done.
Fear is for winter, the voice of Lord Stark echoed in his mind.
Internally, he sighed with resignation. Lord Varys will be pleased.
"I was not born in the North," Jon said cautiously.
"I do not care where you were born, you ask beyond your station," Daenerys replied coldly. "I will see to the Wall when I return to Westeros, after Meereen has been secured. For now, the Night's Watch and your father, the Warden of the North, will suffice. You are dismissed."
The Unsullied that flanked the door moved to escort him outward. Jon took another several steps forward to evade their grasp. Meanwhile, the Queen stood and made to leave the chamber.
"I was born at the Tower of Joy!" Jon shouted after her. "To Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen!"
Daenerys held up a hand. The Unsullied halted their progression. Thoros stood between himself and the armored guards, hand on the pommel of his sword. Barristan Selmy too stood at the ready, and might have looked threatening if not for the look of shocked disbelief comically etched into his noble features.
Daenerys rounded on him and returned to her throne with decidedly less grace. Jon eyed her fearfully. If the Queen was devoid of kindness before, she was radiating hostility now.
"And what proof do you bring of this claim?" the Queen asked in an icy tone.
"That cloak," Ser Barristan Selmy leapt down several steps with a sprightliness Jon did not expect. The knight peered closer at the red fabric draped across Jon's waist. "I knew I recognized it. Rhaegar's cloak, a gift from his mother, Queen Rhaella."
"No," Jon retorted. "A gift from my mother, Lyanna Stark."
Without further ado, Jon unclasped the cloak. The Targaryen sigil was revealed. He laid it down at the foot of her throne, and drew his sword. The Unsullied started but Jon quickly laid Blackfyre atop the red fabric and stepped away. Ser Barristan watched curiously, seemingly entranced by Jon's facial features, mumbling words under his breath.
"Blackfyre, the Valyrian steel sword of Aegon the Conquerer," Jon said, reaching into his bag for the evidence the Queen demanded. "And here, a series of correspondences between Prince Rhaegar and my mother, Lyanna Stark, as well as Eddard Stark, dated the year of Robert's Rebellion. Lord Varys corroborates this story as well, with his letter, here."
The woman at Daenerys' side sprung to life once more. The young lady gathered the letters and sword awkwardly in her arms and returned speedily to her mistress. Ser Barristan plucked the cloak from her grasp as she walked past and ran his hands over it reverently.
On her cushioned throne, the Queen paused to examine the sword more closely, but again, did not read the proffered documents. Instead, she rose and descended. Stopping only once she stood at arm's length.
Jon's heart raced. She was beautiful, up close, almost ethereal. The Queen had clear, pale skin and slender features. The silver gold hair on her head was braided intricately to denote her royal status. Jon met her eye for eye, refusing to look away.
She's young, my age, Jon realized. Up close, Daenerys was much less intimidating. Jon stood a good head taller. We were born in the same year, during the same war. Yet we've lived two very separate lives.
Outside the pyramid, the evening bells tolled. The day was at an end. One the adjacent balcony, a servant lit the braziers and the sun began its descent. Still, Daenerys did not cease her inspection.
"Seize him."
At once, Thoros drew his sword and set it ablaze. The flames crackled, casting an unnatural red glow on the walls. The lady at Daenerys side screamed. Ser Barristan drew in turn and the pair faced one another.
"Thoros!" Jon laid a hand on his shoulder, before the violence could begin. "No. We will defer."
The red knight's sword clattered to the ground. With cheekiness, Jon thought, mildly amused. Ser Thoros raised two hands above his head, and both men were grabbed from behind by the Queen's Unsullied.
"Take them to the cells."